That day of the news was a boundary day. It set sharp limit to Barbara's years of calm. From that day events came quickly, change pressed hard on change, and no day, for her, was quite like its predecessor. A veering of the current had snatched her from her shining eddy, and swept her forth into the tide of life.
On the morning following the dinner, while still alive to a sense of menace in the air, Barbara received a letter from her uncle. As she read it, her eyes sparkled, her heart bounded. Then, as she passed it to Mistress Mehitable, and Mistress Mehitable took it with cheerful interest, her heart sank. She felt a pang of self-reproach, because she found herself willing to go away and leave her aunt uncompanioned in the solitude of Westings House. Glenowen had undertaken certain business, in the way of searching records and examining titles, which was driving him at once to New York, and bade fair, he said, to keep him there for upwards of a year. He wanted Barbara to go with him. And Barbara's pulses bounded. There, she thought, were the lights and the dances, the maskings and the music, the crossing of swords and wits, the gallants and the compliments and the triumphs, which she was longing to taste. Mistress Mehitable's face grew grave as she read the letter. It grew pale as she looked up and saw by Barbara's face the hunger in her heart. Mistress Mehitable had a vision of what Westings House would be, emptied of the wilful, flashing, vivid, restless spirit which for the past few years had been its life. But she was unselfish. She would not say a word to lessen Barbara's delight.
"It will be lovely for you, dear!" said she, with hearty sympathy. "You are just at the age, too, when it will mean most to you, and be of most value to you. I am so glad, dear!"
But Barbara had seen the look in her face, and gave no heed to her brave words.
"Ican'tgo, honey, and leave you here alone!" she cried, impetuously, jumping up and hugging the little lady with a vehemence born of the effort to convince herself that what she said was true. She felt that she could and must go; but that the joy of going would be more than damped—drenched, indeed, with tears—at the thought of how much Mistress Mehitable would miss her, of how empty Westings House would be without her, of the scar her absence would leave in their little world. With her intense individuality, her lively self-concentration, it almost seemed to her as if their little world could not even attempt to go on without her, but must sleep dully through her absence.
"Of course you will go, Barbara dear!" said Mistress Mehitable, decidedly. "It is only natural and right you should want to go, and go. I cannot pretend that it makes me very happy to think of doing without you for a whole year. No words can tell you how I shall miss you, dear child. But I should be a thousand times more unhappy if I were to feel myself standing in the way of your happiness. No, no, indeed, don't talk any nonsense about not going. Besides, your Uncle Bob has the right to have you with him for a while."
"Oh, I wish you could go, too!" sighed Barbara. "Can'tyou?Thenitwouldbe lovely!"
Mistress Mehitable laughed softly. "Not very well just now, child!" she answered, assuming a gaiety. "Perhaps some other time it might be managed. Now, we'll have to plan about getting you ready,—and your uncle has only left us a wretched little week to do it in!"
So it was settled, without any stress or argument whatever, that Barbara should go to New York with Uncle Bob just eight days from that day; and so was decreed, with such effort as it might take to order a breakfast, nothing less than a revolution in Barbara's life.
While the two women were discussing weighty problems of dressmaking, lingerie, and equipment various,—what should be made at Second Westings, and what should be left to New York shops and the tried taste of Uncle Bob,—Doctor Jim came in, less robustious and breezy than his wont, his eyes big with momentous tidings. He kissed the ladies' hands, and sat down thoughtfully opposite, scanning their faces from under bushy, drawn brows. They both looked at him with expectant inquiry.
"You were most intent on whatever you were talking about!" said he, presently. "I hope I don't interrupt! May I hear all about it? Or should I run away, eh, what?"
"You never interrupt,—or if you do, you are forgiven beforehand, Jim!" said Mistress Mehitable.
"What we were talking about will interestyou, Doctor Jim, you naughty old thing!" cried Barbara, saucily. "It was petticoats, bodices, and silk stockings, and such like feminine frivolities! But what haveyougot to tellus? You are justbursting, you know you are. Tell us, and we'll tell you something!"
"John Pigeon's going away to-morrow!" said Doctor Jim, and then shut his mouth hard.
"What? Going away?" cried both women at once, scarce crediting their ears.
"Going away to Hartford, to-morrow, to take a hand in organising some of their rebellious militia!" continued Doctor Jim. "I'm ashamed to tell you. But he was ashamed to tell you himself, thinking you would not like it, so he sent me ahead to make his peace for him. It doesn't mean anything, you know. Just a sort of bragging counterblast to those four regiments of ours at Boston. I wouldn't be down on John for it, eh, what, Mehitable?"
"When will he return?" asked Mehitable, feeling that her world was being emptied.
"Down on him!" exclaimed Barbara. "Why, it'snobleof him. Think how it will encourage all the patriots of our township!" Since she was going away herself, Doctor John's going was easy enough to bear.
"I wasn't talking to you, you saucy rebel!" retorted Doctor Jim. "We'll have that crazy little black head of yours chopped off for high treason, one of these days, if you don't mend your naughty manners. 'Patriots,' indeed! Addle-pated bumpkins! But"—and he turned to Mistress Mehitable, "you asked me, dear lady, when John Pigeon would return. Within a month, I think. He will tell you more precisely for himself!"
"Jim," said Mistress Mehitable, gravely, "we are going to be lonely for awhile, you and I."
"Lonely!" exclaimed Doctor Jim. "That's not what bothers me. It's the pestilent, low, vulgar business that's taking him!"
"Yes, of course," assented Mistress Mehitable, "but 'tis not Doctor John only that purposes to forsake us, Jim. Barbara is going to New York, to stay a year."
Doctor Jim's face fell. He glared at Barbara for half a minute, his shaggy eyebrows working.
"Nonsense, child!" he cried, wilfully incredulous. "What cock-and-bull story's this? I won't have my feelings worked upon!"
"It's true, Doctor Jim. I'm to go with Uncle Bob, next week!" said Barbara, very soberly.
"But you sha'n't go! We can't spare our bad little girl. You're too young, Barby, for that wicked city down there. Weneedyou here, to keep us from getting toogood. You sha'n't go, that's all! You see what John Pigeon'll have to say about it, eh, what?"
"I must, Doctor Jim!" answered Barbara. "Aunt Hitty and Uncle Bob have both decided on that. I feel homesick, sort of, already, at the thought of it. And I know I shall miss you all just horribly. But, oh, I do want to go, after all. It's all so gay and mysterious to me, and I know I'll have such fun. And it will be so lovely, when I'm tired of it, to come back and tell you all about it! Won't it?"
"Well! Well! I suppose we'll have to let her go," sighed Doctor Jim. "Thank Heaven,you'renot going, Mehitable, dear lady!"
"I'm gladyou'renot going, Jim,—either to New York or to Hartford!" said Mistress Mehitable, with a little laugh. Then she held out her hand to him, flushing softly.
"It would be hard indeed for me to go anywhere, Mehitable, were you to bid me stay!" said Doctor Jim, kissing very reverently the hand she had held out. Then, without waiting for an answer to this, he hastily turned again to Barbara, saying:
"By the way, sweetheart, Bobby Gault is in New York, is he not,—eh, what? He will be glad to see you again, perhaps! It is possible he may help make things pleasant for you, eh, you baggage?"
But Barbara was not in a mood to repay his raillery in kind.
"I don't know that I'll make things pleasant for Robert," she answered, thoughtfully, "if he still clings to his ridiculous views about kings and things!"
"Tell that to the marines, you sly hussy!" exclaimed Doctor Jim, regaining mysteriously his wonted large good humour. "Don't tell me this isn't all made up between you and Robert!"
Barbara looked at him soberly for a moment. Then the old audacious light laughed over her face, her eyes danced perilously,—and Mistress Mehitable felt a tremor of apprehension. She always felt nervous when Doctor Jim had the hardihood to draw Barbara's fire.
"Do you know, Doctor Jim, I don't feel quite so badly as I did about leaving you and Aunt Hitty! I think, you know, you will be quite a comfort to each other, won't you, even if Doctor John should have to stay longer than he expects in Hartford!"
At this moment Doctor John himself came in, to Mistress Mehitable's infinite relief.
When Glenowen came to Second Westings he was in such haste that Barbara concluded he had other duties in New York than the searching of records and verification of titles; but with unwonted discretion she asked no questions. Affairs of state, it seemed to her, were the more mysterious and important the less she knew about them; and it pleased her to feel that the fate of commonwealths, perchance, was carried secretly within the ruffled cambric of her debonair and brown-eyed uncle. From Second Westings they journeyed by coach to New Haven, and from that city voyaged by packet down the Sound to New York. Arrived in New York, they went straight into lodgings which Glenowen had already engaged, in an old, high-stooped Dutch house on State Street.
From the moment of her landing on the wharf, Barbara was in a state of high exhilaration. The thronging wharves, the high, black, far-travelled hulls, the foreign-smelling freights, all thrilled her imagination, and made her feel that now at last unexpected things might happen to her and story-books come true. Then the busy, bustling streets, where men jostled each other abstractedly, intent each on his own affairs, how different from Second Westings, where three passers-by and a man on horseback would serve to bring faces to the windows, and where the grass on each side of the street was an item of no small consequence to the village cows! And then the houses—huddled together, as if there was not space a-plenty in the world for houses! It was all very stirring. She felt that it was what she wanted, at the moment,—a piquant sauce to the plain wholesomeness of her past. But she felt, too, that it would never be able to hold her long from the woods and fields and wild waters.
Of her arrival Barbara sent no word to Robert, though she knew by somewhat careful calculation that his office was but a stone's throw away from her lodging. She looked forward to some kind of a dramatic meeting, and would not let her impatience—which she scarcely acknowledged—risk the marring of a picturesque adventure. When Glenowen, the morning after their arrival, gave her the superfluous information that Robert's office was close by, right among the fashionable houses of Bowling Green, and proposed that they should begin their exploration of the city by strolling past his window, Barbara demurred with emphasis.
"Well," said Glenowen, thinking he understood what no man ever has a right to think he understands, "just as you like, mistress mine. I'll drop in on him myself, and let him know where we are, so he can call with all due and fitting ceremony!"
"Oh, Uncle Bob!" she cried, laughing at his density, "don't you know yet how littleIcare for ceremony? 'Tis not that—by any manner of means. But I want to surprise Robert,—I want to meet him at some fine function, in all my fine feathers, and see if he'll know me! You know, it is five years, nearly, since we saw him. Have I changed much, Uncle Bob?"
"Precious little have you changed, sweet minx!" answered Glenowen. "You're just the same small, peppery, saucy, unmanageable, thin brown witch that you were then, only alittletaller, alittlemore good-looking, a little—a very little—more dignified. No fear but he'd know you, though he saw you not for a score of years. 'Twere as easy perhaps for a man to hate you as love you, my Barbe! But forget you! Oh, no!"
So it was that in the walks which they took about the point of Manhattan Island, during the first three or four days after their coming, they avoided Bowling Green, save in the dim hours of twilight; and Glenowen, prone to humour Barbara in everything, had a care to shun the resorts which Robert Gault affected. He learned, by no means to his surprise, that Robert was uncompromisingly committed to the Tory party, but this he did not feel called upon to tell Barbara.
"Time enough! Time enough!" said he to himself, half whimsical, half sorrowful. "Let the child have her little play with all the mirth that's in it! Let hearts not bleed until they must! She won't forgive him,—and he won't yield,—or I'm not Bob Glenowen!"
In New York, where most of his life had been spent, Glenowen knew everybody; and he waspersona gratato almost everybody of consequence. His standing was so impregnable, his antecedents so unimpeachable, his social talents so in demand, that even the most arrogant of the old Tory aristocrats—the Delanceys, the Philipses, the Beverley Robinsons—were not disposed to let their hostility to his views hamper their hospitality to his person.
It followed, therefore, as a matter of course, that almost before she had gathered her wits after the excitement of the journey and the changed surroundings, Barbara found herself afloat upon the whirl of New York gaieties. Every night, in the solitude of her bedroom in the old Dutch house, in the discreet confidence of her pillow, she was homesick, very homesick, and a child again. She would sob for Aunt Hitty, and Doctor John, and Doctor Jim,—and for big, round-faced, furry "Mr. Grim," whom she had so tearfully left behind,—and for Black Prince, who, she felt sure, would let no one else ride him in her absence,—and for dear old Debby in her lonely cabin. She would think very tenderly of Amos,—and then, with a very passion of tenderness, of her own little room over the porch, now silent and deserted. With great surges of pathos she would picture Mistress Mehitable going into the little room every day, and dusting it a bit, and then sitting down by the bed and wishing Barbara would come back. In such a melting mood Barbara would resolve not to be horrid any more, but to send for Robert the first thing in the morning, and tell him just how glad she was to see him.
But when morning came, she would be no more the homesick child, but a very gay, petulant, spoiled, and sparkling young woman, her head full of excitements and conquests to come.
To her first ball Barbara went in a chair, just five days after her arrival in New York. The method of locomotion appealed greatly to her mood; and as the bearers jogged her gently along, she kept her piquant face at the window and felt as if she were playing one of the pictures of court ladies on their way to St. James's,—ladies such as she had often dreamed over in the London prints. For this ball, given at the Van Griff house, just a few blocks from her own lodgings, she was dressed in the very height of the mode, as to all save her hair. She was obstinate in her aversion to the high, elaborate coiffure,—in her adherence to the simple fashion and the single massive curl which she had decided upon, after many experiments, as best becoming her face. She liked her hair, accounting it her only beauty, and rather than disguise it she would let the mode go hang. For the rest, her attire met the severest demands of Uncle Bob, who was even won, at the last, to approve what he called her eccentricity in the matter of hair. He decided that her very precise modishness in other respects would prove her title to independence in the one respect; and it was with unqualified satisfaction that he contemplated the effect she would produce on the New York fashionables.
"Are you sure I look fit to be seen with you, Uncle Bob?" she had inquired, anxiously, the last thing before they set out. "You are such a beau, you dear; and so distinguished-looking!"
"I shall take no discredit by reason of you, I think!" answered Glenowen, dryly. "Unless, indeed, by reason of the slayings of your eyes! But slay the gallants, slay them, sweetheart! They be king's men, mostly,—and there'll be so many the less to fight, by and by, for the king!"
"I'll do what such a homely little brown thing can!" laughed Barbara, blithely, an excited thrill in her voice. But even at the moment her heart misgave her, at the thought that, more than likely, Robert was one of these same "king's men!"
This first ball, at the Van Griffs', was to Barbara a whirl of lights, and colours, and flowers, and bowing, promenading, pirouetting forms. The spacious rooms and shining floors and smiling faces and stirring music intoxicated her. The variety and brightness of the costumes astonished her, the women's dresses being fairly outshone by the strong colours of the uniforms worn by the English officers, and by the even more dazzling garb affected by the civilians. Yet if all this bewildered her heart, outwardly she was at ease, composed, and ready; and Glenowen, across the room, watching her the centre of a group of eager gallants,—fop, officer, and functionary alike clamouring for her hand in the dance,—wondered if this could be the headlong, hard-riding little hussy whom he had brought from the wilds of Second Westings. The stately belles of Manhattan, beauties serene or beauties gay, sisters to the lily or sisters to the poppy and the tulip, eyed with critical half-disfavour this wilding rose from the backwoods, agreed that she was queer-looking if not ugly, and resented her independence in wearing her hair so as to display its beauties to full advantage. That she was well gowned and danced well, they were in general fair enough to acknowledge; but they could not see why so many men found her interesting to talk to. In a word, she was a success from the start. She went home at last, very wide-eyed, tired, triumphant, excited—and disappointed. She had not seen Robert. She had just once heard his name, spoken casually, as that of one whose absence seemed a thing unusual, whose presence seemed a thing to be desired. She knew that she had made an impression. She knew, even, that she had made herself popular, at least with the men. With her accustomed candour she had proclaimed herself a rebel, in response to some jest at the expense of Boston, and had settled the score thrice over by her witty jibes at King George. But even in that royalist circle her audacity had done her no harm. The English officers themselves, carried away by her brilliance and amused by her daring, were loudest in their applause. They not unreasonably agreed in their hearts that it could do the king no harm, while it undoubtedly would be a great satisfaction to themselves, if they could win some favour in the eyes of this most bewildering and provocative little rebel. Perceiving this, Barbara had not spared her shafts; and the most deeply wounded of her victims had been the most assiduous of her admirers. But of all the men who had been presented to her, danced with her, paid court to her, of all the women whom she had met, favoured, or in clash of glances subtly defied, she retained but a bright jumble of unassorted names and faces. One only had gained a foothold in her remembrance. A certain young officer in the colonial militia, one Cary Patten by name, had been presented to her by her uncle with particular commendation, as being altogether of his own way of thought; and him, for his laughing blue eyes, his frank mouth, his broad shoulders, and his boyish swagger, she had liked so well that he stood out among her impressions, and she felt it would be pleasant to meet him again. In fact, to his open and immense elation, she had told him so.
"Well, mistress mine, how did you like it?" asked Glenowen, as, candle in one hand and skirts in the other, she held up her face to be kissed good-night.
"Oh, I loved it, Uncle Bob!" she answered, with conviction.
"Well, it loved you!" said Uncle Bob.
But as he turned away to his own room, he wondered if Barbara was really quite as satisfied as she professed, or whether her failure to meet Robert, and include him among the numbers of her slain, had clouded at all the splendour of her triumph.
Two evenings later there was another ball, an altogether bigger and more imposing function, at the house of the Surveyor-General half a mile out of town. At this, as she was told, every one would be present, and therefore, she agreed, Robert would certainly appear. With a view to circumstances which might conceivably arise in the event of Robert's appearance, she had with great difficulty kept a number of dances free, when her admiring cavaliers at the Van Griffs' were striving to fill her cards in advance. If he should fail to come,—well, she had reason to think that she would not be left to languish unattended.
Meanwhile, however, she little knew how violently her pretty scheme was being brought to nought, she little knew how emphatically Robert was being enlightened as to her presence in New York. She should, indeed, have thought that the story of her triumphs at the Van Griffs' would reach his ears, for on the day following that event, her maid, a garrulous West Indian mulatto whom Glenowen had engaged immediately on their arrival, had told her over her toilet that her name was already the toast of the finest gentlemen in town. But somehow it never occurred to her that Robert would hear anything. She thought of him only as riding, or paddling a canoe, or sitting at his desk, or going to balls and wandering about alone, thinking of her, gravely smiling now and then, courteous, and silent. As a vital factor in this glittering life he had never presented himself to her imagination,—or it is possible she might have written to him from Second Westings more often than twice or thrice in the year!
The house of the Surveyor-General stood behind its trees far back from the road, on a series of terraces set with walks, parterres, trimmed hedges, statuary, and secret arbours. The house was a blaze of light. The terraces were lighted with a gay discretion, here shining, there enshadowed. As she drove up with her uncle in the coach, a little late, and heard the music and the musical babble of voices, Barbara thrilled deliciously, with a prescience that this was to be an eventful night. She was no longer dazzled,—only strung to the highest tension. She realised that all this was her birthright, to be used, played with, thrown aside when tired of, but meanwhile enjoyed to the topmost pitch of relish,—hers just as much as the buttercup fields, the thrush-sweet orchards, the ancient woods of Connecticut. She felt herself mistress of the situation.
"Oh, Uncle Bob," she whispered, drawing a quick breath of anticipation, as she gave him her hand and stepped daintily from the coach, her high-buckled, high-heeled white satin slippers and little white silken ankles glimmering for an instant to the ensnaring of the favoured eye,—"oh, Uncle Bob, isn't it lovely?"
"You are, my Barbe!" he answered, peering down with high content upon the small disastrous face half-hidden in the hood of her scarlet cardinal.
"Let me tell you, Uncle Bob, you look extremely nice yourself!" she responded, squeezing his hand hard. "I didn't see one other man at Mr. Van Griff's so handsome and distinguished-looking as you!"
"Dear me!" retorted Glenowen, musingly, "what is the baggage going to ask me for to-morrow? Whatever it be, she must have it!"
Barbara reached her hostess with difficulty, and was given small time for her greetings. All through her first dance she was so absorbed in looking for Robert that she paid scant attention to her partner's compliments, though she realised that they contained imcomprehensible veiled reference to something which she was supposed to know all about. To her partner, one Jerry Waite by name, her ignorance seemed assumed, and vastly well assumed; and presently with his growing admiration for her cleverness came a dread lest he should transgress, so he diplomatically shifted to new ground. But had she not been quite absorbed in her quest, Barbara's most lively curiosity would have been awakened by his meaning words.
At last she sat down by a curtained doorway and sent Mr. Waite to get her fan, that she might make up her mind as to the advisability of inquiring frankly about Robert. Her scheme was working too slowly for her impatient spirit; and, moreover, it was beginning to dawn upon her that Robert might not unnaturally feel aggrieved, and perhaps even prove difficult and exasperating, if she did not see him soon. She had about concluded to invoke the aid of Uncle Bob,—with whom she was by and by to dance the minuet,—when a word behind the curtain caught her ear.
"La! Mr. Gault!" cried a pretty, affected, high-pitched voice. "Who thought we should be so favoured as to see you here to-night! Not dancing, surely! But 'twere less cruel to us poor maids to stay away entirely, than to come and let us look and pine in vain. But you are very white,—sit down by me and tell me all about it. La, there's nothing I so love!"
It was Robert's voice that answered,—Robert's voice, but grown deeper, stronger, more assured, than as Barbara thought she remembered it.
"It was nothing at all, dear Miss Betty,—a mere scratch!" he answered. "'Tis but the loss of a little blood makes me paler than ordinary, I suppose. But the doctor said there was no reason in the world I should not look in on the gaieties for a minute or two,—and see what new wonder of a gown Miss Betty was wearing,—provided I gave my word not to dance."
Barbara was conscious of the rustle of Miss Betty's flirtatious fan.
"La, sir!" cried the pretty, high voice again, "you make light, of it; but they tell me it was very handsome done. And is it true that poor Carberry is in a bad way? Fie upon you, Mr. Gault, to spit an officer of the king and so strengthen the hands of the enemy."
Barbara's heart was beating very fast. So Robert had been fighting a duel, had he! And been wounded,—but slightly! And the quarrel with an officer of the king! This looked as if her anxieties were unfounded. But on the other hand, this loquacious girl—whom Barbara despised instantly and honestly—seemed to claim him as belonging to the king's party. Barbara trembled with excitement, and with fear lest her absent escort should come back too soon. He did come back, at that moment; but with a ravishing look that turned his brain she sent off again for an ice and a glass of punch. Meanwhile her alert ears had heard Robert replying cheerfully to Miss Betty.
"Oh, Carberry will be all right in a week or two," said he. "'Twould much hasten his recovery were one to send him word of Miss Betty's solicitude. A three weeks at most will take him off my conscience and the doctor's hands!"
Here another voice intervened.
"Traitress!" it exclaimed, "I have been seeking you this half-hour!"
"Let me talk to Mr. Gault one moment more, Jack!" pleaded Miss Betty. "He was just going to tell me all about it,—weren't you, Mr. Gault?"
"Not if I know Bob Gault," retorted the voice. "Nay, nay, dear lady, I will yield you not one minute more to Gault, on any pretext. Shall I court disaster by leaving the most fickle as the fairest of her sex to the wiles of this pale hero, this wounded champion of dames!"
"You're right, Jack!" cried Miss Betty. "I see he's dying with impatience to go and find her, and claim a champion's reward! She's here, Mr. Gault. I saw her but a moment back. Go wherever you see the men a-crowding fiercest!"
So Robert had fought for some woman, had he? He had a tie, then! Barbara felt a tightening about her heart, an impulse to rush from the room. Then she said to herself, "What more natural? What are we but the best of friends? And have I ever been really nice to him?" Promptly anger took the place of the unreasonable hurt; and the anger made her cool upon the surface, so that she had herself well gathered in hand when the curtain was pushed aside, and Robert came through—just at the same moment that her partner came up with the punch.
Robert sprang forward with face transfigured. But to Barbara's chagrin he did not seem at all surprised.
"I am glad to see you, Robert!" she said, gravely, holding out her hand.
Robert bent over it and kissed it in silence, unable, for the moment, to find his voice.
"Are you not glad to see me—to see an old friend out of the old days?" asked Barbara.
"I have no words to tell you how glad I am, my dear lady!" he answered, in a low voice, wishing that Jerry Waite would have sense enough to go away, instead of standing there in that idiotic fashion with the punch.
"But aren't yousurprisedto see me, Robert?" Barbara went on, forgetful of Mr. Waite and the punch.
"I suppose I ought to be surprised, my lady," answered Robert, with some bitterness in his tone, "surprised that you have condescended to see me at all, in view of the length of time you have been here without letting me know! I learned yesterday of your coming—after every one in town apparently knew of it!"
To Jerry Waite the scene was utterly incomprehensible. Oblivious to all good manners, he was staring open-mouthed. Barbara saw the astonishment in his face, quite naturally misunderstood it, and flushed angrily. The pain and wrath which she had by such an effort of will crushed down in her heart crept up again stealthily, and began to mingle unrecognised with this superficial annoyance.
"I had thought to surprise you,—a harmless little play, Robert, to see if you would recognise an old, old friend grown up!" she said, in a cool voice. "But since you are so dissatisfied, we had better not talk about it. You may call and see me some day soon, if you like. I am just around the corner, on State Street. Uncle Bob will give you the address. Will you take me back to my seat, Mr. Waite? Thank you so much for the punch."
Robert could not believe his ears. Was he dismissed for the evening? The blood began to beat fiercely in his head.
"But, Barbara," he exclaimed, "aren't you going to give me at leastonedance?— Hold on, Waite, just a minute, will you!— You can't be engaged for all so early in the evening. I came at the very first, in hopes of catching you and getting several."
Barbara paused. By this time the thought of that other woman, for whom he had fought,—for whom he was wounded,—for whom he carried now this pallor,—for whom he had been too impatient to talk to Miss Betty behind the curtain,—the thought of that other woman was gnawing at her brain in a way to confuse her judgment. She was not exactly in love with Robert, but she was intensely interested, and in the course of the years a sense of proprietorship had grown up. The idea of another woman, with a prior claim, outraged her pride at the same time that it wrenched her heart with a sense of irremediable loss.
"You are not dancing, I understand, Robert," she said, looking coldly into his eyes.
Robert's heart gave an exultant leap. She knew about the duel, then!
"I had thought, my lady," said he, softly, "that you might, under the circumstances, consent to forego a dance or two, and talk with me about old times."
The circumstances, indeed! Barbara's eyes blazed in spite of all her efforts at self-control. This was insolence. Yet she could in no way show she recognised it. For a second or two she held her tongue.
"I hear you have been greatly distinguishing yourself, Robert," she answered, in a voice of somewhat artificial sweetness, "and have taken some hurt in the affair, and really should not be here at all!" She looked at her tablets with hypocritical care. "You should have found me earlier. I shall not be free to give you a dance forhoursyet,—not till quite near the last. You will probably not be able to stay so long!"
Robert grew tenfold whiter than before, and his mouth set itself like iron. She knew,—it was clear she knew,—and yet she could act in this hopelessly light, cruel, merciless way. It was inhuman. Had she no spark of womanly tenderness? He would trouble her no more.
"No, I shall not stay," he said, quietly. "Good-night, Mistress Ladd! Good-night, Waite!" He took her outstretched hand so lightly that she saw rather than felt that he had taken it; bowed over it, so low that he seemed to kiss it, yet did not actually touch it with his lips; then nodded civilly to Waite, strode off down the side of the room, through the door, and was gone. Barbara little guessed the many eyes that had watched and wondered at the episode. She imagined that all were quite engrossed in the dancing.
"Now please take me to the other room, Mr. Waite!" she commanded. "I fear I was engaged for this very dance, and my partner will think me rude!"
Waite was in hopeless bewilderment. He particularly liked and admired Robert Gault. He was silent for a few moments, and then exclaimed with seeming irrelevance: "Women do beat me!"
Barbara looked up at him quickly, as she took her seat.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I beg your pardon, most fair and inexplicable Mistress Ladd," replied Waite, who had been puzzled almost out of his manners, "but,—if you will permit me to say it,—if this be the fate of your friends, what, oh, what must be the fate of your enemies!"
"I don't understand you!" said Barbara, haughtily. "Pray explain yourself!" But just then a young scarlet-coated officer, Nevil Paget, came up, claiming the hand of Mistress Ladd; and Jerry Waite, who had begun to realise that he was in deep water, hailed the rescue gladly.
"I shall have the honour to claim you again, gracious mistress," said he, "and I shall explain myself then, if you bid me. Meanwhile, I make way for those more fortunate than I."
And now, in her bitterness and disappointment, Barbara flung herself heart and soul into the folly. When the young Englishman started to speak of a duel, she shut him up so mercilessly that for five minutes he durst not open his mouth. But she proceeded to flirt and bedazzle him, half flouting, half flattering, till in five minutes more he was nigh ready to fling all the pedigree of all the Pagets at her small, light-dancing feet and beg her to dance upon it her whole life long. She danced everything, and between the dances held a court more crowded and more devoted than that which had paid her homage at the Van Griffs'. She was deaf to all attempts to lure her out upon the fairy terraces, because when she first saw them she had decided that Robert should take her out there to tell her what a wonderful surprise she had given him. But the men whom she refused were not driven away by her denial. She mixed bitter and sweet for them all so cunningly that none could tell in which of the twain lay the magic that held them thrall. And all the while her heart smouldered in her breast like a hot coal in the ash.
At length came her minuet with Glenowen; and after it her uncle, who thought he detected something feverish in her gaiety, and felt moved to cool it a little if he might without damage, asked her if she had seen Robert.
"For a moment or two," she answered, with an indifference beyond reason.
Glenowen had heard all the story of the duel, and wondered what had gone wrong.
"Why did he go home, sweetheart, so soon after our coming?" he inquired.
"Did he go home?" she queried, casually. "You know he was hardly fit to be out. Even heroes can't stand the loss of blood!"
"What did you do to him, child?" persisted Glenowen.
This questioning chafed on Barbara's raw and bleeding nerves.
"Robert made himself very disagreeable," she replied, crisply. "I showed that I was disappointed in him, and he seems to have got angry and gone home!"
"Disappointed in him!" exclaimed Glenowen. Then he hesitated, and went on: "Really, Barbara, are you quite human? Forgive me if I—"
Barbara faced him squarely, and he felt, though he could not see, the flood of tears pent up behind her shining eyes.
"Uncle Bob!" she whispered, in a tense voice, "if you are going to criticise, take me homeright away. I can't stand one thing more!"
Glenowen knew her better than any one else ever could, and his displeasure melted as he caught signal of a distress which he did not understand. Yet he knew better than to be too sympathetic, having more than once experienced the perilous relaxing powers of sympathy.
"Well, well, sweetheart," he laughed, lightly, "forgive me. I've no doubt it would seem all right if I knew. And what does it matter to me about Bobby Gault, anyhow, so long as my little girl is happy?"
"She isn't happy, Uncle Bob! But that isn'tyourfault, you dear, not ever in the world!"
As they moved apart from the promenading throng, and paused at an open window overlooking the terraces, Barbara's ears, acute as those of the furtive kindred in Westings forest, again caught a word that was not intended for them. She saw two painted and tower-headed dames, sitting not far from the window, point her out to another who had just taken a seat beside them; and she heard the newcomer remark, behind her fan:
"That ugly little rebel! Insult an officer of the king's troops for her!"
Barbara's face flushed scarlet, and she looked at her uncle. But he had heard nothing,—and she remembered that her ears were keener than those of other people. The remark, however, puzzled her, and started a vague, troublesome misgiving. Thereafter she found it difficult to resume the spontaneous fervour of her gaiety. Fits of abstraction would take her unawares; but her courtiers thought them merely another touch of art, effective as they were unexpected. She was now looking forward to the dance with Jerry Waite, and the explanation which he had so rashly promised. She had intended to snub him severely, but when he came for her at last he found her altogether gracious.
"Would you mind very much if we sat somewhere and talked, instead of dancing?" she asked. And Waite, nothing loth, led her to a seat just beyond the long windows,—nearer to the terrace than any other man had succeeded in getting her to go. This filled him with elation, and he was glad, rather than otherwise, that she had refused to go out among the walks and arbours. Here his triumph was visible every moment to his disappointed rivals. He was, of course, like the rest, half infatuated with Barbara; but being a sane youth, with a sense of humour, he knew the difference between infatuation and half infatuation. He imagined there was more between Barbara and Robert than there really was; and he did not hold himself any match for Robert in a race for hearts. Therefore, he was capable of thinking of his own prestige. And to heighten that he had an inspiration. When, after waiting till she could wait no longer, for him to bring up the subject, Barbara asked him to give her the promised explanation of his remark, he fenced cleverly till the time was close at hand when he knew she would be claimed by another partner. He saw this prospective partner, Cary Patten, eyeing her hungrily, ready to swoop down and take possession at the first permissible moment. Then he said: "In very truth, fair mistress, the explanation necessitates a long story. To tell you a little would leave me in a worse light than I could endure you to behold me in. The story comes first,—and then the explanation follows with ease!"
"When will you explain? My curiosity has been most artistically aroused!" said Barbara, maintaining with an effort her tone of sprightly merriment.
"If I might have the honour of waiting upon you to-morrow, I am bold to hope I might succeed in interesting you!" suggested Waite.
"You may come in the morning," answered Barbara, promptly. "Say about eleven o'clock."
The delighted Jerry was ceremoniously bowing his gratitude for this command, conscious that it would make him the envied of all the gallants of Manhattan, when Cary Patten came up and carried Barbara off with rather more eagerness than ceremony. He had been most hard hit of all her victims at the Van Griffs' ball, and had experienced deep dejection over the rumour which had that day associated her name with Robert Gault's. Robert's early departure from the ball had somewhat cheered him, however; and now, with that simplicity, not unlike Barbara's own, born of secure family position and careless disregard of convention, he determined to find out if the field were open. He saw that Barbara was distinctly friendly to him,—whether for his own sake or for what Glenowen had told her of his sympathies,—and he trusted to his directness to disarm her possible resentment of his questioning.
"If you will pardon me, gracious lady," he began, after the customary interchange of compliment, "I am going to ask you something about our friend Gault. Carberry was accounted till to-day the best sword in the colony. Now he stands second best! It took uncommon high courage or uncommon deep interest in the quarrel, to cross swords with such a master,—but, of course—"
Barbara's face changed, and she interrupted him crisply. His first phrases had been interesting enough, but at the words "uncommon deep interest in the quarrel," the vision of that unknown woman floated up and laughed in her face.
"I am weary of the subject, Captain Patten. It seems to me it should be possible to talk of something else. If not, let us listen to the music, please!"
Never before had Cary Patten been so snubbed. The experience was novel to him, and he did not like it. But he found more than ample compensation in the thought that Barbara's words showed no impassioned interest in Robert Gault! If such a fight, and in such a cause, left her indifferent, then surely he need have no great fear of Robert as a rival. To be sure, he thought Barbara's indifference a little cruel, a little heartless,—but so much the greater the reward if he could awaken heart in this flashing, audacious, irresistible little witch. Cary Patten had small knowledge of the feminine heart, being much absorbed in his boyish ambitions, his dreams of splendid daring; and he had a healthy, well-founded faith in his own powers. His bright, handsome face looked glum for a moment or two; then he laughed frankly and cried:
"Served me just right, for being so bold, sweet mistress. I implore you forgive me, and be friends! On bended knee I sue—to speak figuratively. I dare not do it in fact, you know, else all the men in the room would be on their knees about you, which would look singular!"
Yes, he was a nice boy, and Barbara not only forgave him, but tried to resume her old gaiety for his pleasure. So far as his pleasure was concerned, she succeeded; though older and keener eyes than Cary Patten's would have seen that her mirth was forced. He left her feeling that he had made no small progress; and he trod on air in his elation because she had promised him no less than three dances at the very next ball at which they should meet. His succeeding partners found him tender but absent-minded,—a combination which they interpreted to their advantage or otherwise, according to their knowledge of men's hearts.
But as for Barbara's heart, it was now yielding to the strain, and she felt that she could keep up the play no longer. Her anger had given out before the need of it, as a stimulant to flirtation, was past. Only pain, humiliation, disappointment, remained to her, and she felt that if she did not get away at once something would happen. With all the obstinate force of her will she kept a hold upon her imperious vivacity, and would hear no appeals when her next partner was bidden to fetch her uncle and call her coach.
"Take me home,please, Uncle Bob!" she pleaded; and he, after a glance into her eyes, yielded comprehendingly. Her reason for going, indeed, he did not comprehend; but her need of going he comprehended instantly. Till the very last moment she kept herself at pitch, laughing, sweetly jibing, taunting, provoking, inviting, so that the men who insisted on helping Glenowen escort her to her coach felt that the glitter had gone from the dance with her departure. But once safe inside the coach, and beyond the lights, she flung herself upon Uncle Bob's neck and broke into a storm of sobbing. She vouchsafed no explanation, and the sagacious Glenowen asked no questions; and she wept, intermittently, all the way to the high-stooped old Dutch house on State Street. To such a bitter end had come the evening, the wondrous evening, of which she had hoped, expected, claimed so much!